


That's Not My Name

by Obscure_ramblings



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Australian Slang, Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing, Drinking, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Friendly competition, Friendship, Gen, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Karaoke, M/M, Nicky's dom stare, Nostalgia, Other, POV Nile Freeman, Platonic Relationships, Singing, Team Bonding, booker can't handle the heat, immortal andy, in that Nicky snipes a bunch of birds, mission downtime, nile just wants some peace, no exile for booker, or maybe crack-adjacent, the author has a vendetta against australian ravens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29125614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obscure_ramblings/pseuds/Obscure_ramblings
Summary: Andy taps a finger against an image of a microphone, nestled in amongst an array of other symbols representing the activities Perth has on offer.“Karaoke?” Nile asks, surprised. This is new.“Karaoke,” Andy confirms.Booker leans in to Nile’s side. “Joe and Nicky are in charge of song selection. They’ll pick who sings what songs, and when.” He sees her hesitate and adds, “Trust me, you don’t want to interfere with their process.”“Alright, blokes and sheilas, theys and neithers, first up we have...” The bar owner pauses to consult the sign-up sheet. “Booker! On ya, mate, kicking things off for us in two minutes.”Alternative title: Nicky uses his Dom Stare™ to win over the crowd during a karaoke competition
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Platonic Relationships All Around - Relationship
Comments: 20
Kudos: 75





	That's Not My Name

**Author's Note:**

> New year, new fandom! I’m dipping my toes in with my very first fic that’s not straight up porn, and am a bit nervous about making such a drastic change in both rating levels and fandoms. Yikes! Be gentle with me, please.
> 
> On to the fic inspiration: I had my music library on shuffle and when this classic by The Ting Tings rotated through, I immediately thought: “Nicky does karaoke.” Anyone who’s witnessed the chaos that is my Tumblr tags (bless you, you brave souls, for venturing forth into that whole mess of questionable humour and thirst posting on main at all hours) will know I’m utterly obsessed with the karaoke scene from Lo Chiamavano Jeeg Robot, as performed by Luca’s character Fabio, so I guess it was kind of inevitable that it would come up in one of my fics. Also, in this AU Andy is still immortal and Booker is part of the crew; in fact, the whole exile thing didn’t happen, because holy fuck, guys, leaving a clearly depressed and suicidal person alone for a hundred years is NOT the way to make sure they will get their life back on track. 
> 
> Trigger warning for a brief description of one trigger-happy sniper ruthlessly dispatching all Australian ravens in his general vicinity—so if you’re a big fan of the hell birds, please back out now because this is not going to be the fic for you. 

They’re fresh off the back of a mission in Papua New Guinea and are lying low, relatively speaking, in the boonies of Western Australia, a ways out of Meerup. But after more than a week of swatting at flies in the sweltering heat of summer and being woken at dawn by the horrendous cawing of what are ostensibly ravens—but in reality sound like croaky harbingers of doom as they ah-ah-ahhhhhhough in ceaseless discordant rackets—Nile has had enough.

“Andy, I can’t take it anymore. I need bug spray. I need food that doesn’t come from a tin. I need…to drown out the sound of those asshole birds!” she exclaims, flinging her headphones across the room to underscore her point. The grating echo from the ravens gathered in the jacaranda trees outside doesn’t let up for a second, and the dulcet tones of Frank Ocean’s smooth voice aren’t nearly enough to block them out, even on maximum volume. Thank goodness for immortal healing or her ears may never recover.

“Impressed you lasted this long, kid,” Andy smirks. “It took Nicky, oh, five days, was it, Joe?” Receiving a nod of agreement and a grin from Joe, Andy continues, “And then on the sixth day he woke up right before dawn, set up his sniper rifle in the trees over there”—she points to a small copse of eucalyptus and peppermint trees—“and spent an entire day picking them off one by one as soon as they cawed.”

Joe laughs, recalling the event. “The body count at the end of the day was impressive, and the rest flew away after they finally cottoned on to what was happening, so we had a blissful twelve hours of peace.”

“What happened after the twelve hours was up?” Nile asks.

“They came back with friends in tow and defecated absolutely everywhere.” Nicky says as he enters the room and casts an intense, wide-eyed stare at Joe, whose halo of dark curls is bouncing around his head as he rocks side-to-side with laughter.

“I’ve never seen so much shit,” Joe chortles. “Andy made Nicky go out and clean up the rental car because we couldn’t see through the windscreen for all the shit, and then,” Joe breaks off to gasp in a breath and try to calm himself long enough to continue, “Then they started shitting on him too!”

“It was not my most dignified moment,” Nicky affirms ruefully. Nile can see the corner of his mouth twitching up as he watches Joe slowly slide off the couch and land on the floor in a puddle of wheezing giggles.

Nile can’t suppress her own smile, not entirely convinced the story is as funny as Joe evidently finds it, but enjoying his enjoyment of it nonetheless.

Andy smiles fondly at him as well, then stands and claps Nicky on the back. “If we’d ever wondered what you might look like with grey hair, that solved the mystery once and for all,” she says solemnly, then tips an imaginary hat in his direction in response to the sarcastic, “Thanks, boss,” he directs at her. 

Reaching into her pocket and extracting the keys to their rental car, Andy strides towards the bedrooms at the back of the house. “I’ll wake up Book, we’re heading out in ten.” Appreciative cheers from Nile; a soft, “Yusuf, per favore,” from Nicky; and a final giggle from Joe follow her out.

***

Leaving the car in the train station parking lot at Mandurah, they buy passes from the automatic ticket dispenser and hop on the train to central Perth. Almost as soon as they’ve settled into their seats Booker falls back asleep, propped up against Joe’s shoulder, head tipped back against the window. He, more than any of the others, has been struggling with the unrelenting heat, and the smooth ride and blissful cool of the air-conditioned train are enough to send him out in under two minutes. 

Nicky, sitting on Joe’s other side, is reading an Elizabeth Lowell romance novel about pearl farming in Western Australia, which he had had stashed in the enormous side pocket on the right-hand side of his camouflage-print cargo shorts. The equivalent pocket on the left side of his shorts had held a ball of sunny yellow wool and a set of circular knitting needles, until Joe had located them as he casually rummaged through all the pockets on the leg closest to him. The happy little noise he made upon discovering the knitting equipment, followed by the smacking kiss he pressed against the side of Nicky’s face, drew a smile from the latter.

Now Joe is happily clacking away, having propped Booker’s arm up so it’s braced over his torso, allowing Joe to tuck the ball of wool against Booker’s side and stop it from escaping as the thread spools out. He’s also talking a mile a minute about eucalyptus varietals, gesticulating with his elbows since his hands are occupied, aiming his stream of consciousness speech at Nile and Andy, who are sitting across the aisle from the three men. Nile is fast glazing over with information overload and Andy is blatantly not listening to Joe, instead focusing intently on what appears to be a treasure map. On the corner nearest to Nile there’s a picture of a skull-and-crossbones above a chest full of pieces of eight, alongside a parrot wearing an eye patch. Nile has been sneaking glances at the map while she absently nods along with Joe’s passionate commentary, but so far has been able to determine only that there are no actual words on the paper, just symbols set within a number grid. 

As the train picks up speed, pulling away from yet another station, Nile checks the printed display attached to the wall, which tracks the train’s path between their current and final destinations. It turns out there’s a full thirty minutes still to go until they reach Perth. She has to tap out. “Joe, you know I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I cannot listen to another word about ovate foliage, soil conditions and climate hardiness. Please, please, can you switch topics to something—anything—else? Like, say, why Andy is apparently plotting to rob Captain Jack Sparrow?”

Joe just laughs good-naturedly, needles never pausing as he aims a meaningful eyebrow raise at Nile. “You’ll need to go straight to the source for that information, I believe!”

Turning to Andy, Nile raises her own eyebrows. “Well? Care to share with the rest of us?”

Andy unfolds two sides of the map from where they’d been tucked away, and turns the paper so Nile can see it properly. “Perth: A Treasure Trove of Touristy Things,” scrolls across the upper margin, which at least explains the pirate-themed pictures. Andy taps a finger against an image of a microphone, nestled in amongst an array of other symbols representing the activities Perth has on offer. 

“Karaoke?” Nile asks, surprised. This is new.

“Karaoke,” Andy confirms.

Joe cheers so loudly he wakes up Booker, who dumps Joe’s ball of wool onto the floor and promptly gets tangled up in the loose threads, flailing his arms as he tries to fight off the foe that’s entrapped him. Joe yells, “Stop, Booker, you’re going to unravel my hat!” while Booker’s movements get ever-more frantic. Finally, Andy stands up and casually slices through the tangle of wool with a knife that she materialises seemingly out of thin air, but Nile knows from past experience had probably been tucked inside one of her boots. Booker calms once the wool releases its grip on him, and Joe attempts to gather the mess of cut ends he’s been left with, mouth forming a moue of disappointment.

Nicky tsks under his breath and turns a page, eyes never having left his book throughout the entire episode.

***

In the five minutes it takes for them to walk along Queen Street from the underground car park to the karaoke bar, Nile can feel sweat start to bead up and slide along her spine. The thumping beat of an 80s-sounding song she’s never heard before spills out the door into the evening, and Nicky hums under his breath for a few beats, then grasps Joe’s hand and swings him around so they’re facing each other as he sings quietly, “Oh, I had a dream. For a moment I believed it was true. Oh, I'd have given anything, just to be there with you.”

His voice is low, husky, stroking over the notes and instantly commanding attention. Nile’s heard him sing before, usually in Italian, while he cooks or is a passenger in a car, but this time he’s not splitting his attention between the song and whatever other activity he’s occupied with. Joe’s evidently enjoying himself, grinning and mouthing the words back while Nicky serenades him. Andy smiles fondly but Booker interrupts the moment by spreading his arms out wide and using his body to shuffle them over towards the door, saying, “If you demonstrate the part about falling to your knees out here, we’re going to get arrested.” Nicky sighs, put upon, and lets go of Joe’s hand so they can enter the bar, single file. 

The sweet relief of air conditioning overrides Nile’s usual caution about entering an unfamiliar location, and she leaves the scouting to the others, closing her eyes for a moment and rolling her shoulders to loosen the material of the ruby-red crop top and thin white overshirt that are sticking to her back. The wisps of hair that have escaped her braids are sweat-slick and plastered against her temples. She’ll need to weave them back in soon or risk losing the whole style to the whims of humidity.

When she reopens her eyes, Andy is already two-thirds of the way through the mid-sized crowd, dozens of people grouped together, dancing, talking loudly, and drinking. It’s early evening so there’s still enough room that Andy doesn’t have to deviate from her path too much to reach the bar, where she claims an empty stool and gestures to the bartender. Joe and Nicky have peeled off too, heading towards the elevated stage set up in the far left-hand corner of the dancefloor.

No one is performing at the moment, microphones positioned in their stands and the large screen behind them displaying the text, “Karaoke! Sign up here.” The neon yellow arrow points down at a wooden stand bearing a lined sheet of paper with a pen clipped to it by a thin chain. A laminated songbook is anchored to the side of the stand, and Joe picks it up, rifling through the pages and pointing out options to Nicky.

“Drink?” Booker says, drawing Nile’s gaze back to where he stands at her side. 

“Shouldn’t we pick out some songs first, choose our time slots or whatever?” Nile asks him.

Booker shakes his head, a rueful smile appearing in the corner of this mouth. “Joe and Nicky are in charge of song selection. They’ll pick who sings what songs, and when.” He sees her hesitate and adds, “Trust me, you don’t want to interfere with their process.”

She glances over to see Nicky scribbling on the sign-up sheet and Joe rubbing a hand through his beard then tapping a finger against his lower lip, holding the song book angled away so as to block Nicky’s view of the options he’s perusing. Resigning herself to fumbling her way through whatever disco hit from the 70s probably passes for current from the perspective of the literal oldest men in the world, Nile follows in Booker’s wake, his height and wide shoulders easily parting the crowd.

***

The drink inside the tumbler Booker places in her hands is fluorescent red and topped with a couple of lopsided cubes of ice. Nile sniffs at it, picking up on the scent of cranberries, and smiles her thanks. “The vodka is brewed locally,” he says, leaning in to speak right by her ear so she can hear him over the thumping bass beat. 

“Support local!” Nile replies, and clinks their glasses together. When he offers her a sip, she finds Booker’s chosen a strong, earthy ginger beer. His sobriety is a fairly new thing but, as he had pointed out, their healing factor means there are no physical symptoms of alcohol addiction, so it’s purely a mental battle to find better coping mechanisms. Not that that means it’s easy, of course, and he still has his moments where he’s learning to lean on the others. Grounding touches seem to be especially helpful.

Nicky appears suddenly between them, her familiarity with his cat-footed ways the only thing stopping Nile from jumping and sloshing her drink everywhere. He presses against her shoulder with his left side and raises his right hand to wrap around Booker’s back. “Drink up, Sébastien, you’re on first.” The slightly crooked grin on his face is wider than usual, showing off white teeth and carving dimple lines into his cheeks.

Joe comes up on Nile’s other side, leaning over the bar to order drinks for himself and Nicky. The bartender calls out a price and Joe holds a hand back over his shoulder, ready to accept the notes Nicky places into it. Joe’s shorts are a crisp white, speckled with black dots interspersed between zigzags, and extremely close-fitting along the lanky curve of his legs. They’re also absent any pockets, not that that’s an issue given the overabundance of storage space Nicky’s sporting.

Collecting both drinks, Joe gestures with one towards a tall table positioned off to the side of the room and surrounded by backless stools, where Andy has set up camp and is surveying the scene. They join her at the table and settle onto their seats. Crunching down the last of her handful of chips, Andy swallows and dusts the specks of salt off her fingers. “Right, boys, what combinations are we going with tonight?”

Joe consults the back of Nicky’s broad, tanned hand, where one of them has written down a list of songs in perfectly formed, neat cursive. Their handwriting is virtually identical, but Nile suspects it was Joe manning the pen this time, based solely on the whimsical heart drawn above the “i” in “Nicolò.” “Booker is first up, then you and Nicky are doing a duet, boss. Nile is next, then myself, and Nicolò will wrap up the proceedings.” Nile’s happy to hear she won’t have to go first and try to impress the crowd while most of them are still relatively sober and will need cajoling to get into sing-along mode.

“Been a while since I did this sober. Do I get to know ahead of time what I’m singing?” Booker asked, looking between Joe and Nicky. 

The two men consult briefly in a nonverbal conversation, diverging from the usual single-glance-that-speaks-more-than-words by incorporating very Italian hand gestures and facial twitches on Nicky’s part, and meaningful eyebrow movements and head tilts from Joe, before Nicky looks over at Booker. Even before he speaks, Booker lets out a sigh and runs a hand over his face. “The rules are the rules, Booker.”

“And what are the rules?” Nile chimes in. 

Joe speaks up this time. “Oh, it’s simple. Nicky and I are in charge of song choices, no one gets to know their songs ahead of time, crowd response decides the winner.” He clutches dramatically at his chest with one hand, the other reaching to grip Nicky’s forearm. “It means I am perennially bereft of the opportunity to serenade my Nicolò in a duet because we must choose for each other to keep the songs a surprise, but this is a burden I bear willingly for the chance to bask in the luminous glow of his performance.” He gazes lovingly into Nicky’s eyes, dark irises sparkling with the depth of feeling he’s infusing into his statement.

Nicky smiles at Joe’s theatrics and covers the hand on his arm with his own palm, bringing it up to kiss Joe’s knuckles, then threads their fingers together and rests them back against the table. He meets Nile’s gaze, adding, “The winner gets an unrestricted dare, to be used on any one person, at any time.”

As Nile ponders the possibilities of such an open-ended prize, the scratch-thunk sound of a microphone turning on draws her attention, and they all swivel around on their stools to face the burly, bald-headed yet thick-bearded man standing at centre stage. Outfitted in a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, black flip-flops, almost indecently short blue jean shorts stretched tight around his muscular thighs, and an unbuttoned, sleeveless white shirt, the man speaks into the microphone held tight in his grasp: “Testing. Testing. Aussie, Aussie, Aussie!”

“Oi, oi, oi!” is the raucous reply from the crowd, including Andy, Joe and Nicky. Nile seems to be the only one who missed the cue about this call-and-reply, but the man on stage continues before she has time to overthink it.

“Alright, blokes and sheilas, theys and neithers, welcome to karaoke night! Last chance to throw your hat in the ring, and we’ll be underway shortly.” The man kicks open a chest positioned to the side of the stage, and withdraws a purple feather boa, which he whips around his neck and uses to accent the little hip shimmy he performs. “Props are in the box; words are on the screen. Let’s karaoke, folks! Please welcome to the stage,” he pauses to consult the list, “Booker! On ya, mate, kicking things off for us in two minutes.”

Booker gulps down the rest of his ginger beer and slides off his stool, swaggering over to the stage with his head held high and shoulders thrown back, arms circling to draw in the applause of the crowd milling about in the vicinity. Nicky, Joe, Andy and Nile clap and cheer, yelling their support as Booker looks at the sign-up sheet to find out what song has been selected for him. He tosses a grin and a thumbs up over his shoulder at Joe, clearly knowing who has made this choice, then rummages around in the chest full of props, drawing out a plastic crown studded with shiny fake jewels. He places it on his head, then grasps the mic, moving the stand off to the side.

Positioning himself at the front of the stage, Booker speaks into the microphone, his French accent stronger than usual, playing up for the crowd. “Hello! Merci beaucoup for your warm welcome. Tonight I’ll be singing for you…” he breaks off to gesture at the TV screen, where the relevant details about the song appear, “My personal favourite 80s anthem, ‘I Want to Break Free’ by Queen.”

A few noises of approval come from the crowd, and Booker strikes a pose, body turned towards the back of the stage, one hand extended to the ceiling, the other holding the mic in front of his face. His left hip is cocked at an angle and his foot is held on tiptoe against the stage. The opening notes swell and Booker spins around to face the crowd, singing in a smooth baritone that’s endearingly ever-so-slightly out of tune. “I want to break free. I want to break free. I want to break free from your lies, you’re so self-satisfied, I don’t need you.” He boogies across the stage, not needing to read the lyric cues. By the time he reaches the second verse over half the crowd is singing along with him, Booker’s energetic performance whipping up their enthusiasm.

A pause in the song and Booker thrusts both arms in the air, clenching his fists and swaying his body with the beat, the crown falling off his head and rolling across the stage. He doesn’t bother to reach for it, instead bringing the mic back down just in time to continue as the lyrics resumed. Kicking a leg up behind him, Booker performs a few hip shimmies interspersed with pelvic thrusts, not missing a beat as he segues into the finale: “I want, I want, I want, I want to break…free!” He drops to his knees and scoops up the crown, cramming it back onto his head as he draws out the final, just-this-side-of-wobbly note and waves to acknowledge the many cheers and a few jeers coming from the now-sizeable group of people gathered in front of the stage.

Flushed and sweaty, Booker returns the mic to its stand and bows before gesturing to the next person waiting to perform, clapping for them as he hops off the front of the stage and collects several high fives—as well as a butt slap from one rather inebriated man who had been very into Booker’s performance—on his way back to the table. “Well?” he asks, looking around at the four of them.

Nile reaches out to add her high five of support and Andy nods, “Good show, Book.” Joe and Nicky are smiling too, and Joe affirms, “A solid start to the evening. Andy, Nicky, you two are on next.”

Andy knocks back the last of her drink and slams the glass onto the table, yelling, “Let’s do this!” as she stands. The current performer is singing the final verse of a nice enough, albeit restrained, cover of “All the Things She Said,” when Andy and Nicky reach the stage and look at the sign-up sheet. 

“Oh, come on,” Andy groans, exaggerating the shape of the words so the group can read her lips despite the distance separating them. Joe laughs at the look on her face, lacing his fingers behind his head and threading them through the bouncy curls at his nape.

Booker leans in to confide in Nile, “Andy is virtually tone-deaf but refuses to admit it. We usually pair her with Nicky to compensate for the caterwauling.”

“When I’m in a generous mood I give them something where Nicky can sing the majority of the lyrics and Andy just chips in every now and again, but this is more an equal-contribution type of song.” Joe shoots a grin at the pair; Nicky is looking as unfazed as always, Andy simply resigned to her fate. 

As the crowd claps unenthusiastically for the exiting performer, Andy and Nicky ascend the stairs built into the side of the stage, foregoing any props as they each choose a microphone. The screen goes blank for a moment, then the song details pop up: “Title: I Want You. Artist: Savage Garden. Year: 1996.”

“Ha!” Booker chortles. He reaches over to clap Joe on the back and the men exchange wide grins, already anticipating the spectacle. Nile is pretty sure she’s heard of the band before, but the song title isn’t ringing a bell. She cheers anyway, fitting her pointer finger and thumb in a circle between her lips so she can whistle at the mismatched-looking pair on stage. Andy is in her usual all-black getup, including biker boots, looking like a hot Goth minus the tattoos and face paint, and Nicky is the epitome of every middle-aged dad on holiday in his cargo shorts, flip-flops and khaki shirt worn unbuttoned over a loose-fitting navy-blue singlet. There is a peek of buttery yellow contrasting brightly against the camouflage pattern on one side of his shorts: The hat Joe had been knitting, returned to Nicky’s side pocket with more haste than care as they exited the train.

The first notes of the song echo from the speakers and Andy nods at Nicky, indicating he should start them off. His rollicking rockstar voice grinds out, at least a full octave below that of the original singer, presenting a complete contrast to the image he presents and the peppy, pop-influenced tone of the song. “Anytime I need to see your face, I just close my eyes, and I am taken to a place where your crystal mind, and magenta feelings take up shelter in the base of my spine, sweet like a chic-a-cherry cola.” Nicky taps his foot in time with the beat as he follows the lyrics scrolling up the screen. His movements are otherwise restrained, clearly not intending to engage in a full-body performance like Booker’s.

Andy gyrates at his side, doing a sexy little twist around the mic stand, and missing—intentionally, Nile wonders?—the first part of her verse, so that she ends up rushing to catch up, “You'll never know what hit you when I get to you.” She warbles, off-key, and Nile appreciates Booker’s warning. Andy doesn’t have the worst voice Nile’s ever heard, but she’s not that far away from it either.

Nicky joins in again, deadpan expression in place, foregoing any extra movements this time, as the chorus scrolls onto the screen, “Ooh, I want you, I don't know if I need you, but ooh, I'd die to find out.” Joe is practically howling with laughter, flushed red across his cheekbones as he grips his aching ribs, and Booker’s shoulders are shaking with mirth.

Nile tries to restrain her grin but the dichotomous picture they make, combined with Andy’s frankly tragic voice and the humour radiating off the men beside her, have her giggling helplessly as Nicky puts extra emphasis on the words, “Can be likened to a deep-sea diver who is swimming with a raincoat.” He makes meaningful eye contact with Joe as he sings this, conveying his unfavourable opinion on the songwriter’s use of simile. Joe winks at him in response and Nicky’s face softens ever so slightly, changing his expression from vaguely judgemental to satisfied at having made Joe happy.

Andy strides off the stage before Nicky’s finished the last line, heading straight for the bar to get another drink. Nicky, well-mannered as always, thanks the crowd before he walks to the side of the stage and descends the stairs, making his way back to the others at their table. Joe reels him in for a quick kiss, Nicky shaking his head in fond exasperation at the glittering joy Joe is exuding but not hesitating to kiss him back. “A raincoat, really, Joe?”

Psyching herself up, Nile stands to head for the stage. Nicky wishes her luck and adds, “There are two performers before you, so you have a moment to recover your equilibrium after what you have just witnessed.” The wry quirk of his mouth indicates he’s well-aware his and Andy’s performance has put them firmly in last place. “I hope you enjoy the song I chose for you.”

The next two songs go by quickly and before Nile knows it, she’s scanning the sheet, finding her name. Definitely not a 70s disco hit, it seems. She meets Nicky’s eyes, gives him a head tip of approval and receives a small smile in response, then hops up onto the stage. Gripping the microphone, Nile takes a deep breath and channels her inner 90s kid. She might have been alive for only a few years of the decade but she absolutely still considers herself part of that generation. 

The song’s details appear on the screen and the first slow opening notes ring out: “Title: Together Again. Artist: Janet Jackson. Year: 1997.” Nile closes her eyes as she starts to sing, in a clear contralto, “There are times when I look above and beyond.” One verse later, the beat kicks in properly and Nile opens her eyes, shifting her shoulders and hips as she shimmies, hopping and waving her limbs in imitation of the choreography she grew up watching her mom perform during their impromptu after-school family dance parties. She feels tears pricking the backs of her eyes as she thinks about her mom and brother, but she blinks them away and continues with the song, finishing strong: “What I'd give just to hold you close, as on earth in heaven we will be together baby, together again, my baby.”

The crowd claps and cheers in appreciation of her performance and Nile waves to acknowledge them as she exits the stage and heads back to the table holding her new family. “Thank you for the song, Nicky, it’s actually on this mix CD my mom used to sing along to all the time while my brother and I were doing our homework in the kitchen after school.” It’s a nice memory but it still hurts Nile to think she won’t see them again. As Nicky gazes at her, his clear green eyes full of compassion, she knows he understands. Andy pulls her in for a hug with an arm around her neck, Joe’s eyes are brimming with warmth and sympathy and Booker pats her hand where it rests on the table next to him.

The moment is broken by the burst of noise coming from two sloshed bogans decked out in feather boas, towering hats topped with feathers and enormous pairs of sunglasses from the props box. They’re having a grand old time as they hop around the stage in uncoordinated leaps, trading off lines. “Pooooour some sugar on me!” scream-sings one, as the other plays a furious air guitar solo, strumming arm windmilling excitedly until he collides with a microphone stand, knocking it over, where it lands with a thump against the box of props. “Oops!” he yells, dropping his mic and abandoning his mate, jumping off the front of the stage to wade through the crowd and disappear.

Left alone on stage, the singer continues on for a few more lines, then trails off as he suddenly realises how many people are watching him. He bashfully returns both mics to their stands before shuffling off the side of the stage, half-finished song still playing in the background.

“That’s one way to make an unmemorable exit,” Joe says, and goes to take up his position on the stage, not bothering to read the sign-up sheet in advance. He faces the screen, watching until the current song cuts out and is replaced by the one Nicky chose for him. “Title: C'est la Vie. Artist: B*Witched. Year: 1998.” He fist-pumps and points at Nicky, declaring grandly, “We are feeling very ‘90s in the club tonight, folks. The love of my life is clearly on the same wavelength as myself on this fine evening.”

Striding over to the box of props, Joe fishes out a flat-topped, tall green hat with a black ribbon around the base that’s fastened with a gold buckle, and sunglasses in the shape of four-leaf clovers. Donning his accoutrements, he gives a thumbs up to the bar owner, who obligingly starts the music.

Facing the front of the stage, Joe sings the first round of “Oh, ohs” in his normal voice, then gradually increases the pitch upwards until he’s belting out the lyrics in a glorious falsetto. In the middle of the song he breaks out into a spontaneous Irish jig, stomping and kicking with one arm clamped down at his side and the other waving the mic in front of his face, completely off time from the beat.

Nicky is positively beaming, clapping along as Joe dances in a tight circle, brow creased with concentration as he tries to speed his movements up to match the music. Booker is saved from falling off his chair by Andy reaching out a hand at the last second to catch him and prop him back up on his stool, grinning as she does so. Nile helps by leaning against Booker’s other side so that gravity doesn’t reclaim him as he rocks back and forth, roaring with laughter.

Giving up on his dance and returning to the front of the stage so he can cast a wide, flirty grin at the crowd, Joe sings the final line, “C'est la vie!” and then bows several times in response to the boisterous applause being aimed in his direction. He replaces the mic and returns to their table. 

“Putain, mon frère, je kiffe ton style,” Booker gently ribs him, clasping Joe’s forearm and holding it tight for a moment, only letting go when Andy socks him in the bicep and laughs that Joe has decidedly upstaged him. The fake pout Booker pastes on his face has Nile laughing too, then Nicky stands to head to the stage: the last one of their group to perform for the evening.

As Joe watches him go, eyes unashamedly glued to the round curve of Nicky’s ass, which is impossible to disguise even in those shapeless shorts, he leans in to Nile’s side to confide, “I always try to pick a song Nicky doesn’t know because otherwise he has an unfair advantage.” Nicky leans over, looking at the sign-up sheet and mouthing the song name a couple of times before he suddenly snaps back upright and flashes his dimples at Joe. “Ah, damn it,” Joe groans. “He knows this one.”

Taking up his position at centre stage, Nicky inclines his head regally in response to the cheers from small group of people who clearly recognise him from his performance with Andy not long ago. The screen flashes and then displays the song details: “Title: That’s Not My Name. Artist: The Ting Tings. Year: 2008.”

The drum beat kicks in and it becomes obvious Nicky had been holding back before. Usually thick Italian accent completely subsumed by a clipped British tone, he gyrates his hips, gesticulates to emphasise particular lyrics, clenches his fists and generally just puts his all into the performance. “They call me ‘quiet girl.’ But I'm a riot.” Reaching the second verse, Nicky gestures to his outfit, eyebrows raised to emphasise the point as he sings, “Though I'm dressed up out and all, with everything considered, they forget my name.”

In the pause before the chorus, he spreads his arms wide, looking around to encompass the left, centre and then right sides of the crowd. “Are you calling me ‘Darling’?” He’s putting forth the enticing energy charge Nile has unintentionally gotten caught up in once before, when she crossed his line of sight when he was watching Joe’s hands sketching. The crowd is feeling it too, surging forward as a unit to try to recapture Nicky’s magnetic gaze.

“Noooo,” Booker grumbles as the mob of people push forward towards where Nicky stands, “Andy, didn’t we ban him from using his Dom stare to win over the crowd?”

Andy just shakes her head, “Don’t you remember when you tried to tell him that last time?” Her gaze unfocuses for a moment, apparently reliving the memory. “Berlin. ‘91, I think it was. Nicky went first and sang ‘Rasputin,’ and when Book said that using the Dom stare on the audience was cheating, Nicky turned the look on him. It took nearly two weeks for Booker to stop blushing every time he was in the same room as Nicky.”

Nile watches, fascinated, as Booker’s face goes through a whole feelings journey in the span of just a few seconds, culminating in a flush across his cheekbones and an almost guilty glance directed at Joe. Following Booker’s gaze, Nile opens her mouth to ask Joe for the story, only to find that he’s also been snared by Nicky’s look and is leaning forward on his stool, body oriented towards the stage, with his mouth parted slightly and an utterly besotted expression on his face.

On reflection, Nile decides against enquiring after a story that might give her a whole lot of unwanted insight into the bedroom proclivities of the man she’s come to see as a cross between a big brother and an honorary grandparent-type figure. Joe and Nicky are generally discreet when it comes to sex, but on nights when they stay at safe houses with thin walls Nile’s grateful for the headphones she carries everywhere.

With one final, “That’s not my name,” followed by a sotto voce growl that should seem out of place after the steady, clipped notes of the rest of the song, but somehow works, Nicky casts an imperious look over the mob gathered in front of him, then abruptly reels all the raw sexual energy back inside himself. Between one blink and then next he’s once more the slightly dorky-looking guy Nile is used to seeing kneading bread in the kitchen or systematically breaking down and cleaning weapons while he chats with Joe in a convoluted mix of languages drawn from several continents.

Watching Nicky shrink his persona down in real time is almost an out-of-body experience. Nile turns to see Joe broadcasting the very definition of heart eyes at Nicky, who is now weaving his way through the people who had amassed in front of the stage. They part around him, casting confused looks at Nicky himself and at the others around them. Several people reach out as he passes but stop short of actually touching him. Nile sees one person who’s dressed in a slinky leopard-print jumpsuit turn to their friend and say, “The fuck?” The friend doesn’t seem to have any clarity to provide on the situation, shaking their head and drawing them away towards the bar, casting a final look over their shoulder in Nicky’s direction. 

Before he can resume his seat, Joe pulls Nicky in to straddle his lap and kisses him thoroughly, licking into his mouth and drinking in the small, encouraging noises Nicky makes in response. Booker, Andy and Nile exchange a glance and simultaneously boo the pair loudly.

“Save it for the bedroom, boys,” Andy chides, “We’ve got a winner to celebrate.”

Withdrawing with a final peck against Nicky’s flushed pink lower lip, Joe shuffles Nicky’s weight backwards until his butt is planted against his own seat. Nicky lets himself be manhandled, breath releasing in a reluctant little whine. Joe wraps Nicky’s hand around a glass of water, a final trio of miserably small ice cubes barely clinging to their shape floating on top, the rest having already surrendered and merged with the surrounding liquid.

Gulping down the water, Nicky finally takes his eyes off Joe and looks around the rest of the table. “What is the verdict, boss?” he enquires. 

“No contest,” Andy replies, looking unperturbed by the outcome of the contest. Nile nods in agreement, Booker groans in defeat and Joe just grins at Nicky. “Who’s your victim and what will they be doing this time, Nicky?”

“I think I will keep this one in reserve, for now,” Nicky replies, tapping a nail against his now-empty glass as he ponders his options.

Booker groans again, louder. “You can’t keep it hovering over our heads indefinitely, man!”

“Do not worry Booker, all will be revealed in due time.” Nicky smiles enigmatically. “Let’s go,” he says, circling the table and chivvying the others ahead of him towards the door.

***

Out on the street, the heat hits them again, made all the worse by their having adapted to the cool atmosphere of the bar. Andy tilts her head, signalling for them to follow her, and they make their way up the street for a couple of blocks until Andy diverts to the left, entering through a set of glass sliding doors into a sterile foyer decorated in shades of white. Nile cheers, breaking into a little impromptu dance as she realises this means a full night without the raucous croak of the ravens invading her dreams. “Thank you, thank you, Andy!”

The indulgent glance Andy casts in her direction is interrupted by the receptionist behind the desk, who enquires about their reservation status. When Andy has negotiated a last-minute booking and distributed the keycards, Nile goes to the elevator and presses the call button. The guys all follow her, but Andy tucks her keycard in her hip pocket and waves a farewell, exiting back onto the street after instructing them to meet in the lobby for breakfast at nine the next morning.

On the ride up to their floor, she and Booker hype each other up with comments about how much they’re looking forward to a night of peace and air-conditioned comfort. Nicky and Joe stand side-by-side, not touching but connected nonetheless, evident from the way they mirror each other’s slight body adjustments.

The elevator dings to announce they’ve reached their destination and Nile does a little finger wiggle in farewell to the others. Heading down the hall to the left, Nile finds her room number and scans her keycard, entering to find a standard mid-range hotel setup: bathroom tucked behind a door to the right, queen-sized bed beyond that in the centre of the room, small desk and chair next to it in the corner, kitchenette against the far wall.

Nile takes a shower, downs a glass of ice-cold water and places her knife and phone within easy reach on the bed. She rolls onto her right side and wraps herself around one of the deliciously plump pillows, heaving out a sigh and luxuriating in the quiet stillness that surrounds her, already anticipating a deep, dreamless sleep. 

***

On the window ledge outside Nile’s room, a raven cocks its head to the side, bulbous eyes reflecting a hellish red glow from the neon sign across the street. The bird opens its beak and draws in a breath.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve coined the term “blokes, sheilas, theys and neithers” as an attempt to cover most gender identities but do not mean to exclude anyone whose identity falls outside those parameters. I am absolutely open to feedback and being educated about any major errors/unintentional offence caused by lack of awareness on my part. I also made up the terrible slogan for the Perth tourist activity map—but let’s be honest, the official slogan, “Perth is OK,” is not exactly winning any awards for inspiring enthusiasm. (Also, this reminds me of the bus system slogan in a city near me in New Zealand, which was “Try the Bus, You Might Like It.” Like, seriously? Imagine aiming for lacklustre and somehow overshooting the mark, straight into bland indifference.)
> 
> Hit me up with a comment if you liked this, want a translation for the Aussie slang, would be interested in a part two (maybe about the dare?), or just want to chat about what other karaoke songs have the tOG crew written all over them! I waffled about the song choices for a while (Eternal Flame was an obvious contender for Joe) so I have many thoughts and would love to hear yours too! Also welcome are commiserating comments about the ear-shatteringly awful creak that is the call of the Aussie raven; I feel your pain, and although there are definitely things I do miss about living in Perth, that is decidedly not among them.


End file.
